Two Years Without Him (Revised)
by MrsHeftyTurtle
Summary: John had fallen from the St. Bart's Hospital roof to his death, leaving Sherlock all alone in the world. This is the point of view of Sherlock and how he handles living without John, his blogger. [Johnlock]
1. Chapter 1: Without John

**AN: Hello everyone! It's been a long time… How have you been?**

 **I'm back. Are you ready for this? I'm going to be rewriting the "Two Years Without Him" story, but with much better quality and more heart wrenching feels. You better grab that box of tissues and sit on down with them beside you. If you have yet to read the first version, I will be keeping it up on this website for you to read. I also write other stories on the "Wattpad" app if you are interested (MrsHeftyTurtle).**

 **I have spent a lot of time rewriting/revising the story, clearing up some typos and mistakes, adding more emotion, and maybe longer chapters. If you are not familiar with the story line of this story, this is all based on the events of Season 2 of Sherlock. Instead of Sherlock falling, however, it is John. I write in the 3** **rd** **person perspective of Sherlock dealing with the emotional overload of losing John (his love interest, this is a Johnlock fic)… Here we go.**

 ** _Chapter 1: Without John_**

 _It's like you're screaming and no one can hear you. You almost feel ashamed that someone could be that important, that without them you feel nothing. No one will ever understand how much it hurts. You feel hopeless, like nothing can save you. When it's over and it's gone, you almost wish you could have all that bad stuff back so that you could have the good._

Sherlock was on his way to St. Bart's hospital when he received the call from John. John told him to stay exactly where he was, then to look up. Once Sherlock looked up, he saw him. He saw John. Standing at the edge of the building, getting ready to fall. Sherlock felt his knees buckle and his heart sink, he begged John not to do it. He begged him to back away from the edge, to go to Molly's office, to talk this out, but John didn't listen to him. The call ended and he fell.

Sherlock didn't know how to react, knees still buckled in place, hundreds of thoughts running through his mind at once. He watched as John's body fell, it was almost in slow motion. Finally managing to find the strength, Sherlock ran to John's body, heart racing. People were surrounding the body, nurses, pedestrians, doctor's. The nurses were checking for a pulse or listening for breathing. Pushing everyone, ignoring the men and women trying to hold him back, Sherlock reached his hand out to feel a pulse. Nothing.

Later that day, all Sherlock managed to do was make it back to the flat and back to his chair. Sitting there, almost lifeless. Staring at the seat where John would always be. He didn't move, he didn't do anything. Mrs. Hudson must have heard the news, bursting through the door, and running up to Sherlock giving him a big hug. He didn't return the favor. She was crying hysterically and apologizing, saying how sorry she was that he was gone. Sherlock didn't speak, he didn't move, he just ignored her. She realized this, letting go of him and walking back downstairs.

Now, today was John's funeral. Two days after he had taken his life. Sherlock spent the last 48 hours trying every theory and deduction to prove that John wasn't actually gone. It wasn't possible. John always promised that he was never, under any circumstances, harm Sherlock. That's exactly what he did though, it ruined him.

Sherlock was dressed in a black button-up and his usual blazer. He was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at himself. He doesn't remember the last time he slept, which was visible from the bags under his eyes. His face more pale than usual, hair knotted and messy. Mrs. Hudson was calling for him from downstairs, asking him to come down and get in the cab, so he did. Grabbing his coat and scarf on the way out, he walked down the steps. Halfway down his knees buckled again and he froze, grabbing onto the railing for support. Everything came flooding back, the memories of _him._ Every single case they've ever completed together, every time they went out for food, everything. Sherlock inhaled deeply and managed to continue down the stairs, meeting Mrs. Hudson outside the flat. She gave him a warm smile and opened the cab door for him, he entered. She followed behind and told the cabbie where to go. Sherlock stared out the window as the cabbie drove, watching people walk by, full of life and excitement. Hoping to see John's face in the crowds.

Once arriving, Sherlock got out of the cab and looked around. He noticed a few familiar cars, such as Molly's and Lestrade's. Some of the cars looked strange to him, unfamiliar, a few looked beaten up and old. He walked into the funeral home with Mrs. Hudson, she was taking too long to pay the cabbie, and was greeted by a worker that showed him where the funeral was being held. Slowly walking in the direction of the room, he stopped right at the door. The door was open, so he was able to glace around the room and there it was. The casket. Closed.

Lestrade walked out of the room, noticing that Sherlock was leaning against the door frame. He said something to Sherlock, but Sherlock wasn't listening to anything. His eyes were closed, trying to block out everything and everyone. Lestrade continued talking to him, trying to get his attention. Eventually he opened his eyes, averted his attention to the floor and walked in. Sherlock tried looking everywhere but the casket. It was impossible. Set up in the front of the room, flowers everywhere, a picture of John in front of it. He took a deep breath and sat down far away from the front row, placing his hands together in his lap, and tried controlling the twitching from his fingers. It was his nerves, he was anxious. The room was silent and eerie, every sound echoed off the walls. Sherlock heard the faint sound of male business shoes tapping on the floor. Mycroft arrived.

"Hello, brother dear. I had an important meeting that was cancelled for this occasion." Mycroft said as he sat down beside Sherlock, irritated, and crossing one leg over the other. "Are you going to play the quiet game, I see?" Mycroft glanced at Sherlock, teasing him with a hint of frustration. "I don't understand why you are so upset, people die, Sherlock. It's only natural." Sherlock refused to answer him, closing his eyes, trying to block everything out again. Mycroft continued talking. "I hope you get over this fit soon, brother dear, I have something for you to solve, and I believe it would keep you highly entertain." Mycroft got up out of the chair and walked out.

After the funeral came the burial, where everyone had to find a ride to the cemetery and watch John's casket get buried. Sherlock was forced to attend due to Mrs. Hudson's wishes, she said it gave her the acceptance she needed, or something like that. While they stood there and watched the casket be lowered into the hole slowly by a crane, Sherlock glanced around at the unfamiliar faces. More people than he ever expected to show up. Strangers to him, but possibly close to John? He had no clue.

The priest spoke after the casket was placed in and workers started covering the dirt in. It must have happened very quickly, because the next time Sherlock glanced around, no one was there. He was standing alone in front of John's gravestone. He stepped closer, hesitantly, and pulled a note from his pocket. Attached to the note, was a string that tied the note and an engagement ring together. Sherlock carefully opened the note, keeping the string attached. He didn't read the note to himself, he knew what it said word for word. He had spent hours, days, and possibly weeks on perfecting the words within. Sherlock kissed the note, closed it, then carefully placed it near the gravestone where it would never disappear. He stood up, putting his hands in his pockets, then stared at the gravestone.

"I miss you, John. I miss you so much. You were great to me, the greatest that anyone has ever been. I swear on that. There were times where I was so lonely, then you.. You showed up. You made me think differently about people, you made me realize that I could feel these emotions for someone. That someone was you, you know. I never got the chance to tell you how much you truly meant to me, John, I never did. Maybe if I said something sooner.. Maybe we wouldn't be here like this. I love you, John."


	2. Chapter 2: The First Few Days

**AN: Apologizing in advance, after I upload this chapter, I'm going to be deleting the original story from here. Since anyway, the revised version will be much better. ;)**

 **Also! There will be a few swear words in here… Be aware.**

 ** _Chapter 2: The First Few Days_**

Just days after the funeral/burial, things turned for the worst. Sherlock had gone on a tantrum one night, kicking, punching, and screaming. He knocked over John's chair and threw it down the steps, never wanting to see it again. Mrs. Hudson came knocking up the steps, yelling at him.

"Oh shut up! Throw the damn chair out!" He yelled at her, his voice echoing throughout the flat.

"Sherlock Holmes! This attitude is unnecessary and childish, even for you!" Mrs. Hudson attempted to remove the chair from the stairway, but couldn't manage it.

Sherlock plopped down I his chair and stared out at the kitchen. Every now and then, an apparition of John would appear where his chair used to be. Of John sitting there, reading the paper or typing on his computer. Sherlock groaned and placed his head in his hands. "He's not real. Stop it" _,_ Sherlock muttered in his head. Removing his hands, he looked up and noticed the apparition was gone.

Sherlock stood and dusted himself off, his anger subsiding. He walked over to his violin, picking up the bow first then the violin. It made the memories flood back again, memories of nights where he and John would stay up for who knows how long. Sherlock would play a song for John, while John sat there smiling at him. Sherlock glanced over at the couch, there was no apparition. He used the bow to slightly move the blinds enough to where he could see outside. It was a rare, sunny London morning. Sherlock stood, towering over the window and placed the violin under his chin. He started hearing something familiar, a voice. _John's_ voice.

" _What are you going to play for me tonight, Sherlock? Maybe something soft?"_ The voice said.

"Get out of my head." Sherlock said through gritted teeth. He placed his violin in its case, then sat down on the couch and pulled his knees to his chest, resting his head on his knees. He closed his eyes and entered his mind palace..

 _Sherlock was wandering through the flat, bored, searching for John. Technically, he didn't look anywhere but the kitchen for him. "John? Are you in our room?" Sherlock heard shuffling from behind the bedroom door. He walked down the hallway and pushed the door open with ease. Once he entered the room, he saw John laying on the floor, face down, with a pool of blood around him._

Sherlock inhaled sharply, exiting his mind palace. Panic rushed over him. He missed him, He missed John so much. Sherlock needed him there. He needed something. He stood abruptly, searching. Searching for his cigarettes. In the midst of his search, Sherlock managed to find something he never should have found.

 _The last remaining vile of diluted cocaine_.

He froze, staring at it, trying to resist the urge. He promised John. He promised he would never do it again.

Sherlock awoke on the floor, sweating, confused. He started breathing heavy and coughing. He sat up quickly and ripped his blazer off, standing up too quickly and fumbling forward. He managed to catch himself on the door frame to the kitchen, putting all his weight on it. After collecting himself, he saw a note on the table. It was from his brother.

 _Call me as soon as you wake up, Sherlock. Will be watching._

 _M. Holmes_

Sherlock stumbled to the kitchen table, reaching for his phone, dialing for Mycroft. The phone barely made I through the first ring before he answered.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, concerned.

"I'm fine, Mycroft." Sherlock said, coughing and wheezing.

"How much?"

"Stop it, Mycroft, I am okay." Sherlock said just as soon as the line ended and Mycroft walked through the front door of the flat. Sherlock glanced over at him and watched him pick the vile up. Mycroft put the vile in his pocket and looked at Sherlock, shaking his head. Sherlock rolled his eyes and staggered off to the bedroom. He froze with his hand on the door knob, remembering the apparition of John's body on the floor. He collapsed, forehead against the door, all of his weight on his knees.

Sherlock sobbed for the rest of the night. Mycroft left sometime, Sherlock couldn't remember when. He managed to move himself to the couch and fell asleep after how many sleepless nights. By the time he woke up it looked as if it was noon. He heard his phone vibrating and searched for it, no longer feeling the effects of the high. His stomach grumbled painfully as he found his phone across the room. He checked his phone, a text from Mycroft.

 _Care for an early tea?_

 _M. Holmes_

Sherlock considered it, shrugged to himself, then walked towards the door. Grabbing his coat and scarf on the way out, as soon as he exited the building, a black car with tinted windows pulled up. Sherlock entered the car, sitting beside Anthea. Her fingers never seem to leave her mobile device.


	3. Chapter 3: Tea with Mycroft

**AN: Hope you're enjoying the revision so far. Short chapter, I know. Some of these chapters are short and I end up taking specific bits that I was never happy with out of this revision. I want to give you so much in these chapters, but I don't want to overload you. I'm trying.**

 ** _Chapter 3: Tea with Mycroft_**

Sherlock sat down across from his older brother, who was sitting back in his chair reading the paper. Sherlock glanced at his brother, deducing every piece of him. He ached to do a case, to feel the rush of deductions and solving it, but he couldn't do it without John. He looked at every speck of Mycroft, his blazer, shirt, tie, hair, everything. He noticed that Mycroft still had sweat stains from his morning workout on his forehead, a slight stain on his tie from tea, and he has yet to use a lint roller on his clothes. Mycroft glanced up from the paper, noticing that he was deducing him and placed the paper off to the side. He shifted his body closer to the table, placing his elbows on the outside of the menu with his hands under his chin, slightly smiling at Sherlock.

"How are you feeling?" Mycroft asked, Sherlock hinted the concern in his voice. "It's been a week now, Sherlock."

As if Sherlock did not know how long it has been. He knew. He knew exactly how long it has been, including hours and minutes. Sherlock didn't answer him, he just stared at him, concentrating on the deductions.

"Knock it off, Sherlock." Mycroft said, irritated.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm fine."

"I found you on the floor of your flat, high off cocaine, Sherlock. You are not fine. How did you find that anyway? I thought John destroyed all of it."

Sherlock's body tensed at the sound of hearing John's name be said so casually. "I said I'm fine. What, are we here for a medical examination?" Sherlock went to stand, but Mycroft grabbed his arm to stop him and sit him back down. Sherlock complied, he was still too weak from the day before.

"Order something." Mycroft insisted. "I've never seen you so thin." That was lie, but Sherlock nodded in agreement, because his stomach grumbled painfully again.

After he finished only half of his meal, they were back in a black car on the way to 221B Baker Street. As the car pulled up to the curb, Sherlock opened the door and exited. Before he closed the door, Mycroft got his attention.

"Are you sure you'll be alright staying here, Sherlock?"

"Yes. I'll be fine." _Liar,_ Sherlock heard John's voice in his head, _you're not okay. Tell the truth._ "Shut up." Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"What did you say?" Mycroft asked, confused.

"Nothing, I said nothing. I'll be fine." Sherlock slammed the car door and went into the building, bouncing up the stairs and into his flat. Locking the door tightly behind him. He threw off his coat and scarf, throwing them at the couch. Plopping himself down onto his chair, he refused to look where John's seat used to be.

 _Look at me, Sherlock. Please, I miss you._ There he was again.

"You're not real." Sherlock said, frustratingly.

 _How could you say that about me, Sherlock? I'm here._

"Shut up!" Sherlock slammed his fist onto the table, cracking the glass and slicing his hand ever so slightly. He groaned and pushed himself out of his chair, walking to the kitchen. He glanced down the hallway, looking at their bedroom door. He was exhausted, sleeping from the cocaine didn't relieve his restlessness. He needed a nap.

Sherlock walked towards the bedroom door, wanting to go and lay on the bed. He could probably smell John's cologne in the sheets. When Sherlock went to turn the knob, he stopped himself and stalked back to the couch in the living room. The couch was a better option these days.


	4. Chapter 4: Sleep, The Inevitable

**_Chapter 4: Sleep, The Inevitable_**

Sherlock guessed that he only slept a total of 24 hours in the past two weeks since John's death. It seemed easy, hoping that he could run away from his emotions. That's not where sleep took him, though. It took him straight to John, every time. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw John. He tried sleeping pills, but those just seemed to make his dreams more surreal. Sherlock would force himself to stay awake trying to find something, anything, to entertain him. His body was used to restlessness during a case, but this was torture. Pure torture.

Today was an odd day, however, Sherlock felt much better. He wanted something to do, he ached for something. A murder. Anything. Something to get his mind off John. He jolted off the couch, almost too quickly and caught himself. He reached for his phone and dialed for Lestrade. After 3 rings, there was an answer.

"Sherlock? What are you doing calling at this hour?" Lestrade asked, sounding exhausted. What time was it?

"Is there a case?"

"A case? Sherlock we haven't had a murder for two weeks now."

Sherlock hung up, tossing the phone on the table. He walked over to the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked disgusting. Has he showered recently? He couldn't remember. Sherlock turned the faucet on and splashed water in his face, rubbing his hands against his face. He glanced back up in the mirror and there he was.

 _I know you're not okay, Sherlock._

Sherlock turned around and the apparition was gone. He looked back at the mirror and the apparition was gone. He threw more water on his face then dried off. He walked to the bedroom door and turned the knob, pushing the door open. It smelled stale, as if no one has entered the room in years. He didn't look around, he just walked straight to his closet, pulling out a dozen pairs of clothing, then walked to the couch. He threw the clothes on the couch, walked back to the bedroom door and slammed in shut. Ignoring the emotions bubbling inside of him, ignoring the tears.

He folded his clothes and neatly piled them on the coffee table. Plopping down on the couch and adjusting himself to rest, that's exactly what he did. He slept.

Sherlock awoke, face covered in dried tears. Heart racing. His entire body was shaking. He couldn't handle the stress his body was under, the heart break it was under. He wasn't used to these things. These feelings. He checked the time. Only 5 hours had passed, it seems as if minutes had only passed. He doesn't remember dreaming about John, but once he looked up, there he was. Sitting in Sherlock's seat.

"John? Is that you?" Sherlock sat up slowly, staring at him, studying him. "John? Answer me!" The apparition just stared at him, smirking. "John!" Sherlock screamed. The apparition disappeared. His heart sank, once again. "Why? Why do you do this to me? Why? Why? Why?" Sherlock yelled throughout the flat. "Why did you do this to me?" Sherlock grabbed the nearest pillow and buried his face in it.

He spent the next 3 hours crying, screaming, begging for John to come back.

Sherlock woke up again, laying on the floor beside the couch. He got up, forcing himself up. Grabbed his coat and scarf and threw them both on quickly. He glanced at the clock, 4am. He went down the stairs quickly, pushing himself out the door and into the crisp London air. Sherlock just started walking, he went left. Unsure of where to go, he just kept walking. He needed to be somewhere but there. Somewhere that didn't remind him of John.

As he walked, he heard vehicles passing, a few early morning joggers ran past him. He wasn't looking ahead, only down. He must have walked for hours, the sun was starting to appear through the clouds. He glanced around, he didn't recognize where he was. Amid looking around, he bumped into someone. Sherlock muttered an apology, then continued. The person, however, caught his attention.

"Sherlock Holmes, not going to say hello to an old friend?" That voice. Her voice. So familiar. He looked back at her, looking at her seducing smirk. Her makeup completed, perfectly, with dark red lipstick.


	5. Chapter 5: The Woman

**_Chapter 5: The Woman_**

Sherlock continued to stare at her as she walked closer to him. She stood up to him, staring up at him. She smiled.

"Well? Are you going to say something?" Irene Adler said, seductively. Sherlock didn't respond. "I'll be on my way then." She pushed pass him, he listened as her heels clicked on the concrete.

Sherlock walked after her, grabbing her arm and turning her towards him. Pulling her close to him.

"That's what I thought." She said, smirking.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked bitterly.

"Excuse me for going on a morning walk. What about yourself?" She put her hand on his cheek, studying him. "You look dreadful, what's wrong? Missing a friend?" She smirked again, he shrugged her hand off.

Sherlock doesn't believe him hitting women, but he has never wanted to hurt her so horribly in his life. Every time she smirked it was like a slap to the face. She knew about John. Everyone knew about John. He wanted to yell at her, shove her away and just yell. _Don't be rude, Sherlock._ John's voice rang from his head. Sherlock tried shaking the sound of his voice from his head, but he longed to hear him speak. _Talk to her, take her for morning tea._ John's voice said. Sherlock pulled himself from his mind and looked at Irene.

"Tea?" He said.

"Yes. That sounds lovely." She smiled and wrapped her arm with his, almost dragging him down the sidewalk to the nearest café.

Once they seated in the farthest corner of the café, sipping their tea, Irene broke the silence.

"In all seriousness, Sherlock, how are you? I heard what happened to John, it's a shame." Her voice sounded fake, as if she was forcing emotion into her words.

"I'm fine."

"Oh, no, you're not fine, Sherlock. I can feel the pain come off you. We all know. Let me ask, have you considered suicide yet?" The question made his stomach turn. Sherlock gazed at her in disbelief.

"No." He lied.

"Why didn't you just go with it? You have nothing to lose, anymore."

"I refuse."

"For what reason? Your only reason to live is dead. You're better off as dead as John."

Sherlock refused to answer her, he looked away, focusing on everything but her. Sherlock considered suicide, yes of course. He had hope. Hope that John was still alive. What would John be doing? Watching Sherlock? Making sure Sherlock didn't off himself?

"Ignoring me now? I guess I'll get going." She went to get up, but Sherlock grabbed her arm and pulled her closer to him. He could feel her breath on his face.

"What does my chance of survival matter to you?" He asked, baring his teeth. "Of course I attempted suicide, numerous times. Maybe dozens within the week, I cannot remember."

"The great Sherlock Holmes can't even remember something as simple as that?" There she was, teasing him. Testing him. "You're broken, Sherlock. You're so broken." She kissed his cheek, making Sherlock's entire body tense and tingle, not in a way he was comfortable with. Irene Adler stood up from the table, gathering herself and walking out of the building, slowly. Before exiting, she looked back and winked at Sherlock.

Within minutes he was back to walking, walking home. His phone vibrated.

 _Dinner?_


	6. Chapter 6: Death

**_Chapter 6: Death_**

 **2 months after John's death**

Sherlock hadn't eaten for a few days, apart from having tea or coffee every now and then. He was losing weight, quickly. He became increasingly more secluded. Changing the locks into the flat, making it almost impossible for Mrs. Hudson to make it inside. She would occasionally come up, knocking on the door. Asking for him to open it or if he was all right. Sometimes she had Lestrade come in and have his people break the door open, just to make sure he was alive. Mycroft called daily, every morning. Sherlock never answered though, letting every call go to voicemail. Sherlock only occupied the living room, kitchen, and bathroom. He blocked off the bedroom door, hiding it, making it impossible to get in there besides through the windows from the outside. It had been two weeks since he saw an apparition of John, his mind was empty. No voice, nothing.

Sherlock was sitting on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table, sipping a warm cuppa. He was staring at the fire place, wrapped in his robe. He glanced up at the mirror that hung above it, it had been shattered weeks ago. Sherlock had gone on an emotional rage, first throwing objects, then throwing punches at the mirror. Slicing his knuckles open. You can still see the blood stains. Sherlock raised himself from the couch, walking over the coffee table and towards the broken mirror. He started picking at the shards, successfully ripping off a large piece. He studied it, letting it shimmer in the light. Sherlock gripped the glass in his fist, cutting into his palm and fingers. Letting the blood drip to the floor.

He walked slowly towards the bedroom door, emotions overflowing his entire body. He managed to remove the barricade he formed over the door a month or so ago. He pushed the door open with ease. Memories of John flushed into Sherlock's mind. Overwhelming him, he remembered every argument, every kiss, every conversation late at night when Sherlock refused to sleep. He glanced around the room, it was becoming dusty. Sherlock felt his body start to tremble, it became more difficult to stand. He sat on the bed, hands shaking uncontrollably, he started sweating. His body reacting in a negative way to all the emotions running through his body.

Sherlock opened his palm, revealing the shard of glass. Blood continued to drip all over the floor, but Sherlock couldn't feel the pain. Sherlock thought about it over and over. Death. Dying. How simple it would be, how easy. He never cared to understand human emotion, until John. The first time Sherlock touched John at the pool started the emotions. Sherlock became more attached, addicted to John. Always keeping a close eye on him, always staying close. He researched his problem, assuming he was ill. Assuming he was running a fever, getting the flu, something besides human emotions.

He fell in love.

\- _FLASHBACK –_

 _It was three months after the pool incident, Sherlock and John were working on a case. John was hungry, so they stopped to grab a bite to eat. Sherlock stared at John as he ate, watching him closely. Once John finished, they left. Sherlock was always one step closer to John every time they walked. This was different though, John returned the favor, they were brushing arms. Every so often, Sherlock would feel John's hand against his. Every time their hands touched, Sherlock's hand tingled. His stomach turned. Was he getting sick? It was such an exciting feeling; it gave him an adrenaline rush. They got back to the flat and were sitting in their usual seats. Sherlock sat in his usual position, feet propped close to him, hands in a praying position. He couldn't get his mind off of John, he couldn't even focus on the case._

 _"Solve it, yet?" John asked, breaking the silence._

 _"Hm?" Sherlock said, barely hearing his question. He opened his eyes and looked at John._

 _"Did you solve the case, Sherlock?"_

 _Sherlock felt his stomach turn again when John said his name, it's never happened before._

 _"Say that again."_

 _"Did you solve the case?" John repeated._

 _"No, the thing after that."_

 _"What? Sherlock, what are you going on about?" John asked, confused._

 _Sherlock felt a relief in his body, he wanted John to continue saying his name. John stood up from his chair and walked over to the kitchen. Looking for something to drink, Sherlock assumed. Sherlock got up and followed him._

 _"Can I help you?" John asked, taking a slight step back, defensively. Sherlock retreated, knowing he was getting too close too soon._

 _"Nothing. Tea?"_

 _"We have none."_

 _"I can ask Mrs. Hudson."_

 _"No." John said firmly and started to walk past him. Sherlock grabbed his arm, stopping him. He pulled him close and gazed down at John, looking him in the eyes. "Sher-"_

 _Before John could finish Sherlock's name, Sherlock kissed him. Lightly._

 _John returned the kiss._

 _-_ \- PRESENT TIME –

The light that was glimmering from the glass took Sherlock from his thoughts; back into reality. He looked down at it, telling himself that it was time. His hands shaking, he raised the glass to his neck. It wouldn't hurt. It would make a mess.

 _Don't._ It was John's voice. _Please, Sherlock. Don't do this._ Tears were streaming down his face; he didn't even realize that his vision was blurring. His hands continued shaking, getting worse. The shard started cutting into his neck. _I love you._ Sherlock let out loud sobs, trying to control the shaking.

"I'm sorry John, I'm so sorry." He choked through sobs. "I can't do this, I can't."

\- Moments before, Mycroft's POV –

Mycroft received a call from Mrs. Hudson, she was worried. She was always worried about Sherlock these days; as was Mycroft. This time was different. Mycroft was in the back of a black car on his way to 221B Baker Street. The car was almost racing there, running a few red lights on the way. Once he arrived, Mycroft almost flew out of the car. Racing inside and banging on Sherlock's flat door.

Locked.

Mycroft started pushing on the door, trying to put all his weight into it.

"Sherlock!" He yelled. Adrenaline pumping through his veins. "Sherlock! Are you all right?!"

After much effort, the door budged open. Mycroft entered an empty room, looking everywhere. He glanced down the hallway to the bedroom, the door slightly ajar. Mycroft rushed down the hallway, just as he watched Sherlock's body fall, face first, towards the floor. Mycroft attempted to catch him but failed, trying to help him sit up. He was bleeding from the neck, shaking and sweaty.

The EMTs came rushing in behind Mycroft, pushing him out of the way and starting to work on Sherlock's body. They said something about him going into shock.

They took Sherlock away.


	7. Chapter 7: Defeat

**_Chapter 7: Defeat_**

 _\- In Sherlock's Mind –_

 _Everything was hurting. His body was screaming in pain. He couldn't realize what was going on, people were talking, Mrs. Hudson was crying. He was panicking, everything in his mind crumbling down on top of him. His adrenaline pumping, he started deducing his chances of survival. Slim, possibly less than 20 percent. The ambulance team was pumping drugs into him, stopping the bleeding. He couldn't see, he couldn't even open his eyes. His body started shutting down, slowly. Shock. He was in shock._

 _"You have to survive, Sherlock. You have to survive." He heard John's voice, repeating itself. "You have to survive."_

 _He needed to relax, to calm himself. Sherlock thought of John, everything about John. His smile, his passion, his assertiveness. Sherlock longed for his blogger. He needed him. Why should Sherlock continue to live, if he'll be living a life without John?_

 _"It's easy, you know. Death. Freedom from the boring. Come on, Sherlock. Just let it all go, let yourself die!" Moriarty screamed into his mind. "Die Sherlock, die!"_

 _Sherlock's body started shaking uncontrollably. Was it the drugs? No, he couldn't have taken that much. He always made sure he took the same amount, a correct amount that wouldn't kill him. Moriarty continued screaming in his head, begging him to die. At the same time, he could hear John's voice in the background, begging him to survive._

 _"Just die already, Sherlock Holmes! Finish it, finish the game!" Moriarty's voice echoed loudly throughout Sherlock's mind._

 _Moriarty's voice continued, echoing the same thing to Sherlock. Sherlock let the pain wash away. He listened. He let himself go._

 _-_ In the Hospital -

Mycroft was sitting in a chair by a window, inside of a white room. There was little furniture inside of the room; two chairs, a bed, and medical equipment. Wires were hooked to Sherlock's body. They put him in a medical coma after rushing him to the hospital. Sherlock was out for almost two weeks, he had overdosed on cocaine, which is what caused the shaking and sweating before he attempted to slice his neck open.

Mycroft made it just in time, with an ambulance team rushing in behind him. He'd never been so scared for Sherlock before. He never thought Sherlock would go to great lengths such as suicide. Mycroft stopped by every morning, reading the paper, finishing a cuppa, getting his condition information from a nurse, then leaving. This morning, however, the nurse informed him that they stopped injecting the coma-inducing drugs into Sherlock and that he should be waking up soon. Mycroft was waiting for that moment. Mycroft was staring at Sherlock, studying his face, waiting for movement. There wasn't any movement for hours.

Mycroft cared for his little brother, he wanted him to be safe. Always. These drug situations worried Mycroft to no end, he hated that Sherlock did this to himself. Never staying clean. John managed to stop him from the drugs, to get him off them. Sherlock always said the drugs heightened his senses, but addicts always lie.

Sherlock groaned, looking around the room, trying to sit up. He didn't have the strength to. Mycroft was at his side, looking down on him. Sherlock's vision became less blurry, focusing on him.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, concern in his voice.

"Yes, no, maybe. I believe I'm fine, Mycroft."

"I will take that as a no."

"What? Yes, I'm fine." Sherlock managed to sit himself up, he became dizzy, everything in the room was spinning. Mycroft helped him sit up.

"Take it easy."

"Where am I? What is this place? What happened?"

"You're in a hospital, you..." Mycroft cleared his throat. "You're fine now. I want you to get help though."

"No, absolutely not. Get me out of here, Mycroft. I must go back to the flat, I should get back to John. He must be worried sick." Before Sherlock processed everything he was saying, he realized that John had been dead for almost three months now.

"You are not going back to that flat." Mycroft said sternly.

"Watch me." Sherlock tried to push himself out of the bed, Mycroft held him back, stopping him. "Mycroft, let me go." So he did. Sherlock fell onto the floor, too weak to hold himself up. He groaned.

A nurse came rushing in, asking questions, Sherlock wasn't answering her. His vision was blurring, black spots appearing everywhere, all he heard was ringing. Next thing he knew he was back in the bed, out cold.

\- _In Sherlock's Mind –_

 _It was 6 months after Sherlock first kissed John. Their friendship, and relationship, became much more serious. After 4 months, John moved out of the bedroom upstairs into Sherlock's room. It was an awkward transition, Sherlock rarely slept in his own bed in the first place, well he rarely ever slept. The first week or so, John mostly slept in there alone. Asking Sherlock to join him, but they were on a case. Sherlock refused to sleep during a case. He promised one day, however, to be in the bedroom with John at least. That entire night he paced around the room, watching John, trying to solve the murder. He couldn't think clearly with John being so close to him, but he didn't want to leave. He didn't want to break the promise._

 _So he decided to lay in bed with him._

 _That morning they both woke up around similar times, Sherlock first. He looked around, confused, feeling John's arm over him, holding him close. He held onto that feeling, never wanting to let it go. Moments later John mustered himself awake, removing his arm from around Sherlock and stretching. John got out of bed, continuing his morning stretch. Sherlock watched him carefully, studied everything about him. His body ached to feel John right beside him again, begging to be close. Sherlock got out of bed and threw on his robe._

 _"Sleep well?" Sherlock asked, gazing at John._

 _"Your bed is much comfier than mine was, so yes. I slept wonderful." He smiled._

 _"Good." Sherlock returned the smile and walked over to him, gazing down at John. "Tea?" He asked, almost whispering. Sherlock slightly lowered himself so that their faces were at the same height._

 _"That sounds lovely." John kissed him, lightly. Never forcefully, always cautious._

 _Butterflies turned in Sherlock's stomach, he loved the feeling._

 _-_ In the Hospital –

Sherlock woke up again, Mycroft sitting at the chair farthest from the bed. He turned the setting on the bed where it sat him up, so he could get a better look around the room.

"Feeling better?" Mycroft asked.

"I need help." Sherlock said, admitting to his defeat. Mycroft looked at him, surprised. He'd never seen his brother do such a thing. "Get me help, Mycroft. Please."

"Anything for you, brother dear."


	8. Chapter 8: The Note

**AN: Hello everyone, are you enjoying it so far? I'm enjoying rewriting it. I've been changing the story around, if you read the first version, things are getting a lot different. Sorry. ;)**

 ** _Chapter 8: The Note_**

 **One year after John's death**

It's remarkable how the human body reacts to situations. It took Sherlock 7 months to recover from John's death. It wasn't easy. 10 suicide attempts, 3 rehab centers, 6 therapists, 26 emergency room visits. He's been clean for 4 of those months, no cigarettes, and no cocaine. Perfectly clean. Mycroft was no longer calling daily to check on him, only calling to recommend a case. Sherlock has since solved 15 cases for Lestrade in the past 2 months. He was finally able to sleep in their room, after having it cleaned out of course. All of John's belongings were stored away in the upstairs room, never to be seen by Sherlock again. Sherlock argued about removing John's belongings, but Mycroft insisted. He called it 'letting go' or something like that. Sherlock was back to his old, arrogant self.

Sherlock was sitting on the couch in his robe, reading the paper and sipping coffee. He never actually read the paper, he just glanced at it, looking for a case. Working on cases returned to how things used to be, before John. Sherlock would meet with Lestrade, tell him his deductions, then leave. As simple as that. He didn't go on any crazy chases like before, he let Lestrade do all the foot work. No one was in awe, no one gave him compliments, no one cared. Just constant insults and badgering. Sherlock's days were boring, but he returned to conducting experiments. Recently, they contained severed heads.

Something was different about today. Sherlock placed the paper on the table, getting up with his coffee cup still in hand. He walked towards the kitchen and looked around, it all seemed so ordinary. Normal. Boring. Then, he heard a noise from his bedroom. He walked towards the door and pushed it open with one hand.

There he was.

John Hamish Watson.

Sitting on the edge of the bed.

Facing the windows. Completely oblivious to Sherlock's entrance.

Sherlock dropped his cup of coffee, it landed with a loud crash, and poured hot coffee all over Sherlock's toes. The figure didn't move, didn't budge. Staying still.

The last hallucination Sherlock saw was 5 months ago, when he finally went clean. Every time he said John's name to his therapists, it was like John was listening. He'd appear right beside him. That was 5 months ago, though. His therapist helped him remove John's image from his mind, he couldn't remember what John looked like.

Seeing him now brought the memories back. It brought everything back. Panic started to rush through Sherlock, his heart racing, blood pumping. He walked towards the figure slowly. Reaching his hand out towards John's shoulder. Once he was less than an inch away, John turned to face Sherlock. John smiled.

Then vanished.

Sherlock didn't know what to do, he panicked. Taking in short, fast breaths. He had forgotten all about John, just like the therapists and Mycroft told him to do, forced him to do. Now he's back.

 _I'm real, Sherlock. I'm not leaving you. Why did you try to forget about me?_ The familiar sound of John's voice rang in Sherlock's mind. It made him angry, enraged. How could this happen? After the recovery he made. He was happy and content. Why would this happen now?

"Stop it, no. Stop it! You're dead! I know you are! I've forgotten about you!" Sherlock's baritone voice echoed through the flat.

 _Oh I'm real, Sherlock._ John's voice rang again. Sherlock glanced at the window and there he was. Perfectly visible.

"No you're not!" Sherlock lashed out, through punches at the hallucination. His fists went through the hallucination and Sherlock ended up punching the window, shattering it.

Sherlock fell to his knees, head against the bottom part of the window, crying. Angry crying. He lashed out again, punching the wall. His knuckles were cut and bloody, he couldn't feel his hand.

 _I read your note, Sherlock. It was beautiful._ Hearing John's voice say that caused more tears to stream. He had written the note over a year ago, he meant for it to be a proposal. He was going to do it just days before his death, but he couldn't work up the courage to.

Wiping the tears from him face and taking a few deep breaths, Sherlock walked out of the room and into the bathroom. Cleaning himself up a bit and dressing into his usual outfit, he headed to the street. He was on a mission.

When John's body was buried, he purposely placed the engagement ring in a place where it would forever stay. He also had the note attached to the ring, hiding that as well. Sherlock never visited John's grave since the burial, he meant to, but it hurt too much. Calling for a cab, because the walk there was too long, he hopped into one that stopped for him.

The cabbie pulled up to the cemetery. Slowly getting out, the cabbie almost had to force him out. He paid and walked up the eerily familiar path to John's grave. He stared at it, nothing changed. It looked the same, except for the flowers. There were none. Sherlock bent down and searched for the ring, unable to locate it. Did someone take it? Sherlock remembered exactly where he put the ring.

It was the note that Sherlock was really searching for. That was more important. He made himself forget what it said, he needed to remember. He sighed and sat down beside John's gravestone, leaning on it.

"I miss you." Sherlock whispered. "I should have brought flowers. You hated flowers." He chucked to himself.

 _\- FLASHBACK –_

 _Sherlock found out that John hated flowers whenever Sherlock decided to take John on a surprise date. He attached a small note to 3 roses, the note read "meet me in our bedroom. -Sherlock". Sherlock had set up a whole dinner in their room. He cooked a 3 course meal, sort of. He had bought pre-made salads and burned the already sliced turkey 2 times. He even made brownies that were half burnt. It was worth the effort. Sherlock even placed rose petals leading into their bedroom, that he found out was very romantic, as said the internet. He was waiting for John on the bed, with their plates placed neatly on bed trays. Once John walked in, he had started asking Sherlock tons of questions._

 _"Sherlock, what is this about?" John asked, irritation in his tone._

 _"I wanted to have a little date."_

 _"So you decided to throw rose petals everywhere?"_

 _"Well, the insider I had said that it was a very romantic idea." Sherlock stated in a matter-of-fact tone._

 _"Is your insider the internet? Sherlock, I hate flowers. They're dull and they die. Oh goodness, I'm starting to sound more like you." John smiled. Every time John smiled it brought this warm, tingly, unknown feeling to Sherlock's chest. Sherlock chuckled in response._

 _"Come here, give me a kiss, and enjoy this professional 3 course meal." Sherlock smiled. John walked over to Sherlock, kissing him on the lips briefly before sitting down in his designated spot on the bed._

 _"Professional? Did Mrs. Hudson help you?" John question, sarcasm in his tone._

 _"No, I did this all on my own. For you." Sherlock looked down, disappointed in himself. He was never good at noticing the sarcasm in John's tone, he always assumed John was being serious._

 _"Well, it's a wonderful gesture." John said, taking Sherlock's hand in his own. "And I love it. Next time though, don't use flowers." He kissed Sherlock's fingers and they started eating._

\- PRESENT TIME –

Sherlock snapped out of the flashback when he heard the crack of thunder from the sky. Glancing up, it was increasingly darker than when Sherlock first arrived. He wanted to find the note. He started digging into the ground where he first placed it, hoping it was still there.

He finally felt something round, pulling it from the dirt, it was the ring. Smiling, he digged around some more and successfully found the note, covered in dirt and grass stains. Opening it up so that it wouldn't tear, Sherlock's perfect handwriting was still eligible. He cleared his throat.

"Dear John Watson, I've written this over 20 times I think. I've lost count. I gave up counting actually." Sherlock chuckled at his own words. "I'm writing this because I love you. I never tell you, nor have I ever used those words towards you. I've thought them though, oh have I thought them. Many times. I don't know if you know how greatly you've changed my life, changed me. I've never met someone like you. Someone who could do that to me. It's amazing. I love every minute with you. The first time I saw you, to the first time I touched you, to the first time we kissed. I love it. That's why I'm writing this letter, because I'm horrible at expressing myself in person. So hiding behind the letter was the best idea I had. I want to spend my life with you, John. I want to spend every waking and sleeping moment I have, with you." Sherlock wiped his eyes, the tears started forming and his vision was becoming blurry. "Because I love you, John Hamish Watson. So, answer this one simple question for me, please. Will you, John Watson, take my hand in marriage, to spend the rest of your life with me?" Sherlock's tears dripped onto the paper, blotching words, the ink started to become runny. Sherlock folded up the note, packing the note and the ring back into the hole.


	9. Chapter 9: Silence

**_Chapter 9: Silence_**

Sherlock slowly started going back into his old self, when John's death was recent. He let the memories flood into his mind, he allowed the hallucinations to happen, he talked to John every time he heard his voice. He didn't talk to the living, though. He avoided Lestrade's petty calls for help. He avoided Mrs. Hudson banging on the door. He enjoyed living with this ghostly remain of John.

Sitting on the couch, sipping a nice warm cup of tea, Sherlock heard the faint sound of his cell phone buzzing. Setting the cup down, he got up and walked to grab his phone.

 _Lunch?_

 _Mycroft_

The last time Sherlock talked to his brother was almost 2 months ago. Now he wanted to have lunch with him?

 _Where?_

 _SH_

Sherlock didn't know what other way to respond. He truly had ignored everyone for months.

 _Surprise. Come outside._

 _Mycroft_

Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf, gracefully putting them on and walked down the stairs. Stepping outside into the fresh, crisp London air, Sherlock realized that the last time he was outside was when he visited John's grave, 3 months ago... His pale complexion even more obvious. He saw the familiar, expensive black car drive up and pull over to the curb. The door opened, allowing Sherlock to step inside. He was greeted by Mycroft, who had a grim look on his face.

"Hello Sherlock. How are you feeling?" Mycroft asked, in his normal tone of voice.

"I'm feeling fine, thank you." Sherlock answered, gazing out the window.

"I see you've been quiet lately. Lestrade has told me that he's tried phoning you."

"What a shame." Sherlock sighed. "All of his cases are boring."

 _That's not what you told me, Sherlock._ Of all times for John to speak to Sherlock, in front of his brother wasn't the best. Sherlock was trying to come off as okay, just so Mycroft wouldn't force more therapy on him. Sherlock tried his best to ignore the voice, but it didn't shut up. _You said you didn't want to solve cases because they made you forget about me._ _Tell Mycroft the truth, Sherlock. Tell him._

"Shut up." Sherlock muttered to himself, as quietly as he could.

"Excuse me?" Mycroft asked, arching one eyebrow.

"Nothing, sorry, how is running London or whatever you're doing these days?"

"It's going wonderful. Not a single issue has risen. Except your mental state, of course."

"What?"

"It's obvious, Sherlock. Your hands are shaking. You're clenching them to ignore the shaking, or something else. Muttering to yourself again? Refusing to come outside? Randomly ignoring calls? And you were doing so well. Would you like me to arrange for another therapist?" Mycroft asked in a serious tone. Sherlock always knew that Mycroft cared for his little brother, but he despised it. He hated how much his cared, it was annoying. It made Mycroft more human.

"No, I'm okay. I told you, Lestrade's cases have all been boring."

 _Stop lying to your brother, Sherlock. He can see right through you._ There was John's damned voice again.

"You're lying to me. Is something else wrong? Are you hearing John again? Seeing him? Sherlock, I told you that he's not there. You must realize that. He's dead."

"No. He's still alive. I promise you."

Mycroft sighed.

"I can prove it to you, too." Sherlock said, eagerness in his voice. "Give me 9 months and I'll have the proof for you."

"What are you going to prove to me, Sherlock? John fell from that building. He is currently buried 6 feet under, in a casket."

"How do you know? It wasn't open casket. Anyone could have been in there." Sherlock's eagerness was overpowered with determination to prove his older brother wrong. "9 months. You'll have your proof."

The car suddenly stopped and the doors opened on both sides, telling Sherlock and Mycroft that they had arrived at their destination. Mycroft stopped his little brother before he could get out to the car. Sherlock could see the concern that Mycroft had in his eyes. It was the same concern he had every time Mycroft found Sherlock high from cocaine or heroin.

"I care about you, Sherlock. I want you to be okay. I know what John meant to you, I understand that it hurts to live every day without him, but you must move on. Please. For the sake of every one that cares about you. This isn't how we want you to live the rest of your life." It was the first human moment Sherlock had ever experienced with his brother. Their whole life they were uncaring, constantly arguing with each other, the constant feud. But this was different. This felt real.

"Okay." Sherlock sighed and exited the car.

He walked into the restaurant with his brother, the host sat them at a table in the far back. They were sitting in silence, the whole time Sherlock wondered if he should go back to forgetting John or continue with what he had now. Sherlock remembered the time he had forgotten about John. He was happy again. He didn't have to worry about the memories flooding back into his mind, he didn't have to worry about the pain. It just wasn't there anymore.

Once Mycroft and Sherlock had finished their meals, they were back in the car, returning Sherlock to his flat. They never spoke to each other after that. They didn't look at each other. Sherlock was staring out the window, watching the buildings go by. Repeatedly, Sherlock thought about what his brother said to him. Maybe it was time to forget out John. Maybe it was time to never remember his sweet voice and calming eyes. His loving touch and tender kisses.

 _Don't, please. For me._

Sherlock shut the voice out of his head, ignoring every begging yell it had. It was time to accept the silence. To return back to normal.


	10. Chapter 10: New Roommate

**AN: In this chapter, the new roommate is a completely made up character from my own imagination.**

 ** _Chapter 10: New Roommate_**

 **A year and six months after John's death**

Lestrade had called Sherlock, informing him that there was an urgent issue he had to attend. On cue, Sherlock glanced out the window and a police vehicle showed up to chauffeur Sherlock to the crime scene. Sherlock didn't like being chauffeured, though. He informed Lestrade he'll be right behind in a cab. Lestrade never gave much detail over the phone, but this time he had been more quiet. Three months ago when Mycroft had talked his younger brother into some form of sense, Sherlock had continued working on cases with Lestrade. He even found himself a new roommate.

Arriving at the scene, Sherlock hopped out of the car and found Lestrade impatiently waiting. His arms were crossed, he was tapping his left foot, and biting on his bottom lip. He even started smoking again. The stress was obvious to read off Lestrade, but Sherlock didn't bring it up as he approached him.

"What have your annoying officers found?" Sherlock asked, monotone.

"A man, late 20s or early 30s it's hard to tell, fell of a building late last night."

"Fell?" Sherlock glanced at the body, it looked oddly familiar. "Oh no, no, no, this man did not fall. He was pushed."

"You've been here for twenty seconds and you already have that assumption?" Lestrade asked, annoyed with himself.

Sherlock had many ideas as to what happened to this man just by looking at him. He knelt next to the body and pulled out his magnifying glass. This man had been in a fight before he fell, his shirt was crumbled at some edges, Sherlock noticed the bruises that had formed on his jaw. He took a close look at the hands, the knuckles were swollen, but no blood. He didn't fall, he was shoved. Two of his ribs were broken which could have been from the fall, but they were on the opposite side of how he landed.

"So?" Lestrade asked. Each time he assumed Sherlock would finish more quickly.

"This man was in a fight before he died. Bruises formed on both sides of his jaw and a bruise from a neck. How would those bruises form from a fall? They wouldn't. He has at least two ribs broken but on opposite of where he landed indicating someone hit him with a blunt object. His knuckles are swollen but not bleeding, meaning he was fighting back just moments before he died." Speaking quickly. Sherlock slowly glanced around, noticing the highest building in the area. He pointed at St. Bart's hospital. "He was pushed from up there."

"How the hell?" Lestrade asked, sounding unpleasant and uncomfortable.

"He also has a severely fractured neck and skull, so he would have had to fall from one of the highest buildings here. He died on impact." Sherlock started to feel the adrenaline rush. "Now to figure out who and why." Sherlock put his hands together and placed them right under his nose, thinking.

"Sherlock, I think my men and I can handle the rest of the case." Lestrade announced, breaking Sherlock from his thought process.

"And let your men take months to solve this? No, I can easily help you out. Give me a few days, this will be over with." Sherlock said, oblivious to the obvious.

"Sherlock, I would appreciate it if you let my men take care of this."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, clearly confused.

"Because we think we know who did this."

Sherlock took a closer look at the body that was laying in front of him. It didn't click at the time he arrived or as he examined. He assumed it was just a stranger, no one of importance. The body belonged to Jim Moriarty. Moriarty was whom attempted to kill John, whom Sherlock believes let John fall to his death. Sherlock became enraged as the realization hit him. He stood frozen, staring at the body, thinking of all the things he would have rather seen this day. It was ironic, Moriarty falling to his death. The same way John did. Sherlock started feeling that similar pain, it was returning. He had been doing so well. Better than last time. He clenched his jaw, tightening his fists, ready to strike.

"We're going to handle the rest of this case, all right? Go home." Lestrade said as nicely as he could.

"No. I'm going to help you and you're not going to deny my help."

"You're not paid to be here, Sherlock. I can arrest you for this."

"Arrest me? For what? Helping your idiotic men? You need my help and I don't care whose body is laying here. You're going to accept it." Sherlock figured to himself that helping on this case would bring him steps closer to proving to Mycroft that John still existed. He researched that as a side hobby, trying to find evidence of it. This was as close as he was going to get. Hopefully his new roommate enjoyed messy houses.

Sherlock returned to the flat, arms full with confidential files. Sherlock's new roommate, Alex, wasn't a very quiet kind of girl. She was loud and somewhat obnoxious, but she helped pay rent and helped keep Sherlock in check. She knew about what happened to him and knew everything that he had gone through. She wanted to help him and sometimes came off as flirty, though Sherlock always rejected those moments.

He walked into the flat and placed the files onto the table in the living room. The air smelled of a fruity perfume and girly shampoo. Alex must have finally woken up and showered. As if on cue, she walked out of the bathroom, wet hair in a towel, but fully clothed.

"Oh, didn't know you went out. Where were you?" She asked, her voice was simple and so pure.

"Lestrade called, a case had come up. I stopped in his office and stole files, he'll never notice their absence." Sherlock responded, focusing on the files, and sorting through them.

"Oooo, what kind of case?" Alex always questioned him when Sherlock returned home. She plopped down in her chair, it's exactly where John's used to be. "Oh did you see I bought groceries? Please don't throw them out for your silly experiments this time." There was that flirty tone she had every now and then.

"Hmm." He dully responded, taking a seat, and reading Moriarty's and John's files.

Alex was a nice girl, 28 years old and teaching History to secondary students. It was her time off though, so her company sometimes had Sherlock annoyed, he enjoyed when she was out all day. She'd never heard of Sherlock Holmes until accidentally bumping into him at a coffee shop one day. Her first impression of him was, well, strange. He came off as awkward, but noticed that he held a higher standard for himself than others. She ended up seeing him every morning at the same coffee shop, deciding to finally sit down and have a little chat.

 _-FLASHBACK—_

 _"What's your name, stranger?" Alex had said the first words, as always._

 _"Sherlock Holmes." He responded, she was surprised at how rich and baritone his voice was._

 _"I'm Alexandria Park, preferably Alex though. So, Sherlock, what brings you here every morning?"_

 _"I used to visit with a friend every now and then when he wasn't working in the morning."_

 _"Ohh, well where is your friend now?"_

 _Alex continued asking question after question, wanting to know more about this mysterious man. She soon learned that he was a consulting detective, whatever that was. She also learned that he was very highly educated, being able to tell her everything about herself, things she's never told anyone. At first it was shocking, then it became amazing. She continued to compliment him, telling him that what he was capable of doing was a wonderful gift, and that she was proud of him for using it in a good way. When he smiled, though, Alex almost melted. His smile was gorgeous. She could tell he didn't smile often, but oh when he did, it was the best thing she'd ever seen._

 _They ended up meeting with each other every morning after that. Alex explained she was looking to move out of her current apartment, it had started having water problems and she was not going to live with that. That's when he offered for her to move in with him. At first she was astounded that he would ask such a thing, then he explained more on how he could use the help on paying rent and she was hooked. Two weeks later, she had officially moved into 221B Baker Street._


	11. Chapter 11: Solutions

**_Chapter 11: Solutions_**

Sherlock stopped answering Alex's questions, causing her to fall silent. Sherlock was lost in his thoughts, oblivious to the real world around him. He lost track of time until Alex lightly tapped his shoulder, placing tea and a biscuit beside him, avoiding to place it on any papers. He didn't notice the smile she gave him, he never did. Muttering a small thank you, he took a bite out of the biscuit and placed it back onto the plate.

"Sherlock, it's 11 o'clock at night. You've been reading these files for hours. Go to your room, go to bed." Alex pleaded, she always did. Concerned for his health and well-being. Sometimes he would spend days sitting there, going through file after file. "What exactly are you looking for?"

He didn't answer her, he just waved her off with his hand and continued filing and sorting. Everything was starting to make sense. He had printed tons of photos from surveillance videos that were located around the world. He was tracking down John Watson, proving that he was alive, proving that he was here in London again. Alex managed to get a glimpse of the files and sighed.

"John's dead, Sherlock." The sudden determination in her voice shocked Sherlock, she's never said something like that. She's the motivation that continued Sherlock on his journey. It caused him to stop moving entirely, unsure of how to respond. Alex sighed. "I want you to stop this, please." She placed her hand on top of his. He still refused to move. "You're not, you're not getting anywhere. I've spoken with Mycroft, every lead you give has become false. You were given John's autopsy papers; you've seen his death certificate. You're killing yourself over this, Sherlock. I was told how you were the first few months. Unable to eat, sleep, or do much of anything. I don't want that to happen again. I won't let it happen."

"Shut up." He muttered.

"What?"

"I said shut up!" Yelling, pushing her back. "You don't know anything about what had happened! You weren't there! You can't hear his voice or see him!" As he spoke, his voice became louder. He threw the tea and biscuit from the table, he would have rather hit those than her. "Leave me to my work."

"No." Before Sherlock realized what she was doing, Alex had picked up all the papers, ripping them and tossed them into the fire place. Sherlock stood motionless, watching her light the fire, watching all his evidence go up in flames. Alex stood there for a few minutes, waiting for Sherlock to do something, anything.

 _I can't believe you would trust a woman to live in our house, Sherlock._ It had been so long since he heard John's voice. That broke Sherlock. He broke down, slowly. He started shaking, his knees became weak, he started sweating, he put his hand on the table to hold him up but his arm gave out. He toppled onto the ground, the shock was too much for him to handle. He could barely hear Alex yelling his name, apologizing.

She never understood.

For the rest of the night and into early morning, the flat was silent. Sherlock was laying on his bed, the shock of earlier passed hours ago. After Sherlock had managed to move himself to his bedroom, he slammed his door and collapsed onto his bed. He had so much time to think about what she was saying. He had so much time to think about the now burnt evidence. He felt like he was so close to locking onto John's location, putting all the pieces together before Alex had burned everything. This wasn't all apart of Sherlock's imagination, no, this was all real. John was still alive. Sherlock had the proof, literally had it right in front of him, until Alex decided to add her own input.

Sherlock did have copies though, in a sense. In his mind palace. His brother would never believe that though, oh God no. He would make a joke of him. It took Sherlock months to get the little evidence that led up to finding Moriarty's body today. He became resentful towards Alex, although he really didn't want to argue with her. He didn't like to, he enjoyed her company. He enjoyed trying to keep her happy.

There was a faint knock on the door.

"Sherlock? May I come in?" Alex's soothing voice whispered through the crack between the door and the frame.

"Mmm." He muttered, not wanting to use much energy.

She slowly pushed the door open and sat at the edge of his bed. She was looking down at her hands, her long blonde hair covering the anxiety on her face. She was fiddling her fingers, scratching at them in a light, but nervous, manner. She moved her hair behind her right ear and looked at Sherlock, really looked at him. For a moment, Sherlock noticed how beautiful she really was.

"I'm sorry, for what I said and what I did."

Sherlock propped himself against the bed frame, not responding.

"I mean it. I know... I know John was, er, is important to you. I just, I hate this. You know? Watching you suffocate yourself in the idea that he's still out there. I feel like you're wasting your time, I don't want you to be disappointed in the end, really I don't. I want you to stop, stop with the days on end research, stop with the not eating or sleeping for days. Please. You told me that your brother had his first human moment with you, a few months ago." She giggled. "It stopped you, from your research? From your obsession? Correct? Well, for me, Sherlock. I want to be able to live with you knowing that you'll be okay." She placed her hand on top of his, Sherlock didn't really know what to do about the gesture.

He became confused, he wanted to stop but his motivation was driving him to continue. It would be pointless to stop now. Alex wrapped her hand in his and squeezed it lightly, just like John used to.

"Get some rest, I'll wake you up if Lestrade has anything worthwhile." She smiled, still holding his hand. After a few brief seconds, Alex got up and let go of his hand. She walked out of his room and closed the door behind her. Leaving Sherlock on his bed in a confused mental state, feeling as if he did every time John was around.


	12. Chapter 12: Two Years

**AN: In the first version of this story, I ended it here. I lost motivation before and I really did not want to continue writing because I lost any train of thought I had to keep it going. This may or may not be the case now, but we'll see.**

 ** _Chapter 12: Two Years_**

 **Two years after John's death**

Normally Sherlock would be standing at John's grave right now, sitting beside it, talking to him. Today was different though, he didn't want to go. He was scared. Today he promised Mycroft that he would have the evidence that John was still alive, but Alex had demolished that whole idea.

Alex and Sherlock were eating lunch at the table, Sherlock was twirling his noodles around with his fork. They barely spoke to each other, but when they did, it was meaningful. Alex normally asked how he was, if he was going with Lestrade today, but today she was quiet for the most part. Sherlock was spending more time with his brother than he had since they were forced to live together as kids. It was relieving, in a way. Mycroft never said John's name, no one did. They all avoided speaking about him. Alex said it was something about moving on, so Sherlock tried to follow along.

The sound of his phone beeping took him from his thoughts. Sherlock glanced over at it, he received a text from an unknown number. Curious, he opened it.

 _I will be waiting for you, rooftop of St. Bart's hospital. 2 o'clock._

There was no signature after the text, just a simple message. Intrigued, Sherlock picked his phone up to respond. Although while typing the text, his phone shut off, unable to turn back on. He groaned and slammed his phone onto the table, startling Alex.

"What's wrong?"

"My phone." He responded angrily.

"...what about it?" She never knew when not to ask questions. "Who texted you?"

"I don't know."

"Is that bothering you? What did they want?"

"Nothing, Alex. Nothing." Sherlock's frustrated tone shut her up. He didn't feel hungry anymore. Glancing at the clock, he had a hour before he was supposed to arrive at St. Bart's. Maybe he should just show up early.

Sherlock stood up, put his plate beside the sink and went for his coat. Ignoring Alex's questions, he threw on his coat and scarf and bounced speedily down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. Calling for a cab, one gleefully pulled up, allowing Sherlock to hop in.

Without Sherlock realizing, Alex followed behind in a cab that stopped for her.

Sherlock was standing at the edge, staring at the ground below. Whoever was supposed to meet him was 20 minutes late. Sherlock couldn't leave though; he was too interested in this. He sat down on the edge, placing his hands together under his chin, and went into his mind palace. He was just looking over a case in his head, one that Lestrade was positive that Sherlock was wrong. He wasn't, he was never wrong, but he was going through all the memories to be sure. He started tapping his fingers together, smiling from being so positive on the case.

"You know you shouldn't listen to text messages from strangers." That voice. Was it in Sherlock's head? He heard footsteps. "I'm surprised you even showed up... I was nervous you stopped caring..." The voice sounded like it was just a few feet from him. "Your smile is still as handsome as you." Opening his eyes, he saw him. Standing there. He looked so real.

"How..."

"Shh... Don't start with the questions." He smiled that familiar smile, making Sherlock's heartbeat rapid. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

"No. You're not real. You're in my head, you're fake!" Anger was boiling in side of him, he was shaking. He stood up too fast, losing his balance and fell back. He almost fell over the edge, but a hand gripped onto his wrist tightly and pulled on him. "You're not..."

"Not dead." John pulled Sherlock close and kissed him ever so lightly. Sherlock didn't exactly know what to say, or what to do. Every time he saw John, he could never touch him. If he did, he just vanished into thin air. Like he was nothing. But this time, this time their touch was so real and lovely, it felt so fake at the same time.

-Alex's POV, moments before—

She followed him, wanting to know where he was going and what he would be doing. When she saw his cab pull up to St. Bart's hospital, her heart sank. Worry started to fill her body. What if he was going to jump? Was it his end? She got out of the cab and followed behind, slowly, he'd never notice her. She watched him go up the stairs to the roof, so she ran back outside. She saw him standing on the edge.

"Oh god, no, Sherlock, no!" She yelled, almost to herself. No one looked at her, it's as if no one heard her.

She ran inside and ran up the staircase to get to the roof. The pushed the door open forcefully. There he was, he was okay. Who was that standing with him?

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm sorry for everything." The unfamiliar voice said. Alex saw tears streaming down Sherlock's face. No one looked at her.

"It's okay." Sherlock's voice broke, she's never heard him talk like that.

The unfamiliar figure turned around to face her.

It was John Watson. Not dead.


	13. Chapter 13: Yes

**_Chapter 13: Yes_**

"Sherlock? Who is that?" John said, looking at Alex and back at Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't paying attention; he was just looking at John. "Sherlock, who is that?"

"Alex. My name is Alex." She said as she walked towards them. Sherlock looked at her face and saw the anger. She walked up to John and shoved him back, away from Sherlock. "What the hell do you think you've done? Do you know what you've done to him? Everything he suffered?" She said, almost yelling. "You've almost killed him!"

"I know. I know." John said, understanding. He put his hands up defensively.

Sherlock wasn't talking, he was just focusing on John. He was right. He was right all along, he knew it. Sherlock smiled to himself. Everything he ever believed was true. John was alive the entire time.

"Oh you know, huh? You know what you did to him? The pain you caused him?" There was Alex again.

"Yes, I do, who are you? What do you have to do with Sherlock?"

"I'm his roommate."

John looked at Sherlock, eyes wide, shocked. "Roommate?"

"Yes." Sherlock's baritone voice echoed. "I needed help with rent and you were gone, Mycroft also recommended meeting new people. Alex just happened to be around. Shall we get going?" Sherlock wanted to get away, just go back to Baker Street and be with John again.

"Excuse me? No, what is this?!" Alex yelled.

Sherlock pushed past her with John, holding his hand.

"Sherlock!"

"Alex, if you could please pack your things and move out by tomorrow, that would be lovely." Sherlock said, turning his head, smiling at her.

Alex scoffed and stood there, watching them leave.

John and Sherlock didn't say a single word to each other during the cab ride, Sherlock just started at him. Wanting to touch him, kiss him, feel his entire body just to make sure he was real. Sherlock reached for John's hand and held it. They sat like that the entire cab ride, not talking, holding hands.

The cabbie pulled up to the sidewalk and let them out, John paid. They walked up to the door and Sherlock unlocked it, holding the door open for John to walk in. Sherlock followed behind him, up the stairs and into their flat.

"Smells like a woman in here." John started laughing, he just kept laughing. Sherlock joined him in laughter, his baritone voice echoing through the flat. Sherlock took John's hands and kissed them. He pulled John close and wrapped his arms around him.

"I've missed you, John." Sherlock smiled down at him.

"You're not angry?"

"No. Not right now anyway, I'm happy that you're back."

"I'm sorry. I know what happened to you, I kept contact with Mycroft…" John said, not meeting Sherlock's eyes.

"Don't tell me about that right now. Please, John. Let me savor the happiness. Just let me kiss you, dammit."

Sherlock kissed him, forcefully, pulling him close. Never wanting to let go of him. Never wanting to lose him again.

\- One Year Later –

Everything was back to normal, just like it should be. John by Sherlock's side, solving crimes, the excitement. Sherlock loved it, every second of it. Today was an off day, no crimes have occurred. Sherlock was preparing a cup of tea for John while John was getting dressed in the bedroom.

"Sherlock? What is this?" John asked, walking out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, holding something in his hand. It looked like string, with a note attached.

Sherlock's heart sank. How did John find that? He never wanted him to find that.

"Sherlock?" John asked, looking at him. "What is this?" John held the ring up, the note dangled around on the string.

"A proposal. To you. I meant to hide that where you wouldn't find it."

"Yes."

"What?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"I'm saying yes, Sherlock. Yes, to your proposal. I read the note." He smiled. "I love you."

Sherlock hesitated, nervous. His hands started shaking slightly. "Iloveyoutoo." He said it quickly it almost didn't sound like English. John smiled that familiar smile, walking closer to him.

He kissed Sherlock and in the same moment, Sherlock slipped the ring on John's finger after pulling the note off, tucking it in John's coat pocket.


	14. Chapter 14: Married Life

**AN: This will be the last chapter of this novel, I know it is VERY short, but I wanted to wrap everything up. I hope you've enjoyed my revision! This version is 3 chapters longer than the original. I know, it was a little crazy. I was mostly using it to get my motivation back into writing stories. Deep down I do enjoy doing this, but sometimes I lose confidence or get severe writer's block. I'm trying to change all of that! Please enjoy the rest of my future stories. :)**

 ** _Chapter 14: Married Life_**

John and Sherlock were still on their honeymoon. They didn't go anywhere, they stayed in the flat for their honeymoon. Except Mrs. Hudson wouldn't allow any clients to come in and bother them, they had their time alone. They spent an entire month just in the flat, they left to go to fancy restaurants, walks around gorgeous London City, but they would return to the flat. They received dozens of cards and flowers, mostly from people that John knew. Sherlock only received a few cards that were addressed to him, five of them were from his mother. Mycroft only sent a text, he didn't show up to the wedding.

John was sitting in his chair, staring at Sherlock who was laying on the couch. Sherlock was throwing a ball into the air, then catching it, then throwing it again. John started laughing to himself.

"What? What is so funny?" Sherlock said, catching the ball then looking at John. He sat up. "What is it?"

"Nothing." John said, still laughing.

"Tell me, what is it?"

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes." John started laughing harder.

"Oh shut up." Sherlock said, offended that John would laugh at it.

"Why don't you go by William?" John said through laughter.

"It's hideous. Why did it have to be on the invitations?"

"Tradition." John said, winking.

"Stupid." Sherlock laid back down and went back to throwing the ball in the air.

"Don't be so upset, William." John said, laughing again. Sherlock threw the ball at him and walked over to him. "That's not very nice!"

"Sorry, did that hurt?" Sherlock asked, then he kissed John and pulled him out of the chair, still kissing him.

"Yes, it hurt."

"I'm sorry." Sherlock kissed John again. In the middle of the kiss, the doorbell rang. "Has it been a month already?" Sherlock sighed to himself.

"I suppose so, do you think Mrs. Hudson would have remembered?" As John said that, they heard Mrs. Hudson opening the door and greeting the client. She told them to head upstairs.

A man entered slowly, hands fidgeting.

"I've come about my wife." He said after entering. Sherlock pulled the chair up for the man to sit.

"Have a seat." Sherlock motioned towards the chair and smiled at the man, ready to listen to his case.


End file.
